Accidentally on Purpose
by Gixxer Pilot
Summary: Modern day AU. Kirk and McCoy are Iowa City police officers, partnered together and working the 3PM to 11 PM patrol. As a duo, there will inevitably be ups and downs. But the downs? They won't always be comical like this. Rating is for language only.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Accidentally on Purpose

**Author**: Gixxer Pilot

**Beta**: Livejournal's lovely Wicked Jade

**Summary**: Modern day AU. Kirk and McCoy are cops, partnered together and working patrol. As a duo, there will inevitably be ups and downs. But the downs? They won't always be comical like this.

**Author's Notes**: Seriously. The last thing I should do (and I mean the _very last fucking thing_) is start yet another fic. I do sincerely apologize to those of you that have been waiting for me to finish Shades of Grey, as I promise I'm working on that one, too. It's just that this tribble was way too much fun to ignore. I totally heart AU fics, so I figured I could toss my offering into the mix. I also think there's a distinct possibility this AU of mine might end up as a running series, so look for that if you're so inclined.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Star Trek.

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Choices, in law enforcement, were often dictated by others. Cop work, by its very nature, was strictly reactionary. It wasn't possible for a police officer to arrest someone for what they were thinking. There had to be means, motive and opportunity. Essentially, there had to be a crime. But how a cop reacted to any type of call varied greatly, and hinged on the equal actions of the complainants involved. Sometimes, all that was necessary was a bit of handholding or some interjection of logic. Other times, actions and reactions required more drastic, forceful measures. But there was one thing, one choice so sacred that it required the knowledge and understanding of the oldest, most seasoned police officers within the unit.

The million dollar question of the day: what's for dinner.

For the last hour, a debate raged inside squad 7862. As the elder statesman of the pair, McCoy felt it was his duty to choose the food. But Kirk, the kid who couldn't sit still long enough for his ass to even make an impression in the seat, begged to differ. It simply wasn't fair that Jim was always overruled by McCoy's seniority, especially when the cranky old bastard never let him drive. Picking their dinner seemed like the amicable solution, especially given the fact that Kirk was blatantly disallowed from abusing the squad car's lights and sirens while in his partner's presence.

But so far that evening, Kirk was having little success appealing to his partner's rather particular palette. Who knew a former med student-turned-paramedic-turned-cop could be so damned picky?

"Pizza," Jim shot.

"No."

Kirk paused, tapped on finger on his lips and asked, "Subs?"

"We had those yesterday," Bones replied flatly.

Sighing, Kirk tossed out a sarcastic, "Sushi."

McCoy reciprocated with a grunt and a raise of his right eyebrow. "Dead raw fish? Do I need to remind you how many ways that might kill you from the inside out?"

Jim growled under his breath. "What about the buffet?"

"Are you trying to curse us? Yeah, let's go and eat ourselves retarded, which will inevitably invite a lengthy, drawn out foot pursuit the second I put us ten-eight. If you want to chase a fourteen-year-old car thief through the neighborhood while lugging around half of Old Country Buffet under your vest, that's your choice. Personally, I don't really want to relive my academy days of running while I puke," McCoy replied, cringing. Yes, he liked his food to remain in his stomach, thanks very much.

Jim scoffed. He swore some days that McCoy was contradictory because his brain was wired to always respond that way. But he could never resist an opportunity to poke fun at the one place where he had the upper hand. "That would imply that you'd actually run now, old man. Every time someone bails, I hit the ground at a dead sprint and you take the car and drive around. You're out of shape, Bones. Face it," Jim said. Kirk extended the index finger of his left hand and poked McCoy in the side, right above the handle of his gun.

McCoy swatted Jim's hand away with practiced ease. Without looking down, he caught Kirk's finger and started bending until little yelps of pain started floating from the passenger seat of the squad car. Satisfied, he shoved Kirk's hand away. "Use your head to save your legs. Just because I don't enjoy chasing dee-wee suspects and drug dealers through yards and over fences does not make me ineffective. I catch just as many perps as you do, only I do it-"

"With my help," Jim finished for McCoy, cutting his partner off in mid sentence.

"I was going to say, 'Without breaking a sweat,' before I was interrupted," McCoy said. An amused, cocky smile was spreading its way across his face before he remembered he was supposed to be upset. He locked it down as quickly as it came. With his favorite cranky mask in place again, he swiveled his head right for a quick half-second look at Jim.

"Exactly. You don't break a sweat because all you do is walk up and cuff them." Kirk pushed the seatbelt off his shoulder and leaned into McCoy's personal space. "I'm the one that runs them down, gets dirty and hurt, and you take all the credit!"

McCoy grunted in acknowledgment, his eyebrows doing their active climb and descent up and down his forehead. "If the shoe fits, I guess."

"That's cold, dude. Way cold," Jim answered, trying his damndest to look seriously pissed, but failing miserably. There was no malice to his words or any kind of sting to his tone. He knew that the banter was part of the job, and it was a perk he relished. Honestly, it was fun bullshitting with McCoy, especially given their rather rocky beginning together as partners. Kirk cleared his throat and amended, "But that still doesn't change the fact that I am hungry." Jim's stomach chose that moment to voice its agreement, a loud growl filling the hollow silence in the car. "See? I could go for some chow mein."

"We are not having Chinese again," McCoy answered emphatically.

"Why not? Lucky Jade is awesome!"

"No, Lucky Jade almost killed me the last time we ate there. I was sick for three days." A fine shudder worked its way from McCoy's toes to his head when the memory of eating bad egg rolls and moo goo gai pan assaulted his brain. Never, ever again would he be that stupid. He swore he'd drag the health inspector with him to any restaurant he didn't frequent in order to avoid that very unpleasant situation from repeating itself. Jim still hadn't let him live down the traffic stop from which McCoy had to excuse himself momentarily when his stomach picked that moment to revolt.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jim couldn't help but notice the light green pallor Bones' face suddenly took on, and how his partner's lip was curling up in that slightly disgusted way it did when they responded to a particularly rank decomp. Kirk smiled, hiding his chuckle behind his hand. In jest, he asked, "Sure that wasn't the bender talking?"

"What bender? You know I haven't had a drop in over a year." McCoy's default expression, the stony, pissed-off one, was plastered all over his face. Most young officers, and even some of the older ones, may have recoiled in abject fear seeing the hard, angry look. But McCoy knew that Jim could see the twinkle in his eye, and quite probably the gratitude as well.

Indeed, Kirk picked up his partner's meaning. He shifted in his seat so he was facing back forward while trying to look as officious as possible. Deadpanned, he replied, "Yeah. I hear those tonic waters are pretty potent these days. The lime is the killer."

McCoy's rich laugh bounced off the windows. Admittedly, sometimes it did feel good to do something other than frown, but he'd never admit that out loud. "Touché, Jim."

Looking thoroughly impressed with himself for the day, Jim practically beamed in the passenger seat. His stomach growled again, this time louder than the first. "Bones, I'm famished. I'm going to waste away and die if I don't eat like, now. I gave you suggestions and you shot them all down, and the longer you drag this out, the less likely it gets that a decent place will still be open. So, decide, old man. Food. Food, food. food."

McCoy rolled his eyes and leaned over in the driver's seat of the squad. He pulled the car to a stop behind a gigantic garbage truck waiting at the light and glared at his younger partner. One hand dangling over the steering wheel, he asked in the most exasperated tone he could muster, "You do this to me on purpose, don't you? How can any one person possibly have as much energy as you all the damned time? You are some sick cosmic punishment for all the wrongs I've done in every single past life. Why? What did I do wrong? Why me?"

Meanwhile, Kirk took to his favorite pastime when his partner was ranting away: imitating said partner. Jim's hands flew around his face, wild gesticulations and facial acrobatics a near spot on match to McCoy's own. The younger officer stopped long enough to realize his partner's lips had ceased moving, and that there was no sound coming from his mouth.

Pressing his chapped lips into a firm line, McCoy asked, "Jim? JIM! Are you even listening?"

Kirk continued his imitations and rolled his eyes. "Of course I am. I don't have much a choice in the car with you. But to answer your questions, yes, I'm listening, but no, I'm not a punishment. You know you'd miss me too much. You wouldn't know what to do with yourself. No one would give you fashion advice, women advice or tell you when you're being an asshole. Hell, you'd probably never make it out of your underwear and off your La-Z-Boy on our days off if I weren't around to show you how to live. You'd be bored."

"No, I'd be sane without you. I would also have a much lower dry cleaning bill, I'd get by with three uniforms a year, and I would avoid the embarrassment that comes with being a public spectacle at the hands of my partner," he grumbled, tossing out a couple of choice curses along the way. In his heart, McCoy knew the kid was right, and Jim understood that fact as well. But that didn't mean he had to give the little shit the pleasure of hearing it out loud. Scowling, he added, "And besides that, since when did rookies get an opinion? You're one step up from the gum I peeled off my shoe this morning with your debit card. You FNGs are good for fetching my coffee and doing the traffic paperwork, but not much else."

"Yeah, thanks for that, by the way. Glad I don't use the thing very often." Jim was indignant, and began ticking off 'Kirk's Finer Points of Partnership' on his fingers. "But Bones. We've been partners for almost two years. I was done being a probie eighteen months ago. I know your birthday, the date _and_ the year. I hang out with you, voluntarily, in that little tiny dorm room you call an apartment. _You puked all over me_. Twice. What chunk of the term 'partnership' do you not get?"

"The part about being saddled with a crazy, over the top, annoying-as-fuck infant with a gun for a partner. That's what." McCoy looked smug when Kirk's jaw snapped closed. He knew he could always get the younger man with the experience trump card, and he never failed to use it when necessary. It was low, but it was nevertheless effective. "Now, we're going to Charley's and there better not be any damned argument about it."

Kirk folded his arms over his chest and nearly pouted. "Fine. But if they short me on the chili for my fries again, someone's going to jail."

McCoy just pulled on the road that would lead the pair to lunch when the radio cackled. '_If you two ladies are done, some of us have real work to do_.'

Reaching up to grab the shouldered microphone with his left hand, McCoy jabbed the button on the side of the black square receiver propped on his right shoulder. "Six-two to dispatch. Say again?"

A few random chuckles were audible in the background, and Kirk was able to pick out most of the voices. Of course one had to be their CO. Great. Jim heard the sound of someone brushing something from area of the microphone. Knowing the desk sergeant, it was most likely some type of food. To the original request, the dispatcher replied, '_McCoy, you were leaning on your transmit button again. The entire department just heard you two arguing like an old married couple. Should I get the chaplain down here for when you boys are off shift to perform the ceremony? Might as well make it official_.'

"Fuck off, Serdeski. Jealousy is a bitch when your ass won't fit in the squad, isn't it?" McCoy sniped back. He pulled the mic roughly off the shoulder board on his jacket and growled into it, "How's that jelly doughnut tasting?"

There was a pause for a beat, and Jim could practically hear Serdeski sputtering with righteous indignation, even though the desk bound cop had already released the push to talk button from his end. It was no secret that McCoy and the three to eleven shift's desk sergeant had a long running feud, something stemming back to the time they were rookies together. Jim heard inklings about an ongoing, escalating prank war between Greg Serdeski and his partner, against McCoy and his partner. Scuttlebutt had it that the war culminated in epic fashion when Serdeski's squad ended up in the Iowa River. The jury was still out whose fault it really was, but officially, the sergeant had the black mark in his jacket to show for it. Privately, Kirk always suspected McCoy, but his will to live far surpassed his curiosity at how his straight-laced partner pulled off the prank. He valued his life, after all.

A bit more contrite, Serdeski's nasally voice cackled over the radio again. '_Why don't you two children take a call and help me clear out this backlog I've got? 1015 Dupont Avenue, apartment 2C. We've got a call from neighbors who said they could hear screams from inside. I've rolled the fresh meat out there, but Lieu wants you guys to back them up_.'

"Takes one to know one, Serdeski." With the parting shot across the proverbial bow, Jim's demeanor switched to that of strictly business. He pulled the notepad from his pocket and clicked the pen. He scribbled down the address and grabbed his mic. "1015 Dupont, ten-four."

McCoy flipped on the lights, activated the siren, and floored the accelerator. He used the turn lane to get around a slow moving Civic. Concentrating on the road, he bit out a disappointed, "So much for dinner."

"Yeah. I was really looking forward to chili fries."

* * *

**Cop codes**: 'dee-wee' - DUI or DWI suspect; 'ten-eight' - in service (on duty); 'FNG' - acronym for Fucking New Guy(s); 'Lieu' - endearing term for the precinct's Lieutenant, who, in this verse, will be Chris Pike.

**Next Up**: Kirk and McCoy discover why it's a bad idea for rookies to run together, and they have a bit of…disagreement with a suspect.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes**: I'm sure some of you are wondering why I chose to title this story the way I did. After this chapter, I hope it'll be clear. But really, the boys are just a whole hell of a lot a of fun to write, so this story has begun to take on a life of its own. It's debatable whether that's a good thing or a bad thing. Thanks goes to Wicked Jade for beta-ing for me, and for putting up with my general insanity.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Star Trek. I don't even own shares/rights/whatever to anything even closely related to Star Trek. 'Tis a shame. I also don't own any other recognizable bits of reference here. I'm just doing this for fun.

* * *

**Chapter 2**

1015 Dupont Avenue was, in a phrase, spectacularly unimpressive. In fact, it was downright gloomy. The city seemed to have scrimped on the street light budget for that part of the area, and the street leading up to it was loaded with back breaking, unfriendly potholes. Kirk was sure he now had a nice case of whiplash courtesy of his partner dodging a giant crater in the middle of the road with a last second evasive maneuver. Stray garbage rolled across the lawn, and McCoy squinted for the driveway leading into the complex.

Jim killed the sirens as soon as they turned the corner leading to the building. The structure itself was massive; it was a white building made up of four floors and probably 120 units. With one glance, Kirk could plainly see it was old. In its heyday, it was probably quite a nice apartment complex. But it looked now as if the management did only the basic, necessary repairs. It was no place either man would want to live, and for McCoy, who was not picky about his amenities or lack thereof, that was surely saying something.

Apparently, the disturbance garnered quite a crowd. An eclectic mix of people were standing out front of the building, all pointing and yelling. McCoy slammed on the brakes, the vehicle's tires screeching when the squad came to a halt in the handicapped space in front of the manager's office. Throwing open the door before the car came to a complete stop, Len hopped out and took a quick look around. Kirk was out right behind him, eyes up and alert as soon as he was out of the car. Both men heard the sounds of screams and hollers at the same time. They exchanged nervous glances and bolted for the nearest set of stairs. Taking the steps three at a time, Kirk and McCoy were up on the landing in ten seconds flat. Bones was grumbling all the way up the stairs about stupidity as a disease in humanity and cursing the two rookies they were assigned to assist.

McCoy told Lieutenant Pike that it was a bad idea from the word go to let two rookies ride together, that it would only lead to a clusterfuck of a situation, and that someone would pay for with some sort of blood. As one of his most trusted officers, Pike listened to McCoy and respected his instincts. But, Stevenson and Bradley begged Lieu to ride together, and Chris couldn't ignore the instant chemistry between them. It was something that he couldn't teach, and the ability they shared to read the inflection in the other's voice might very well save their lives one day. McCoy argued that they'd have to live long enough to learn how to be good cops, and that kind of training could only come from the more experienced officers. In the end, Pike went against both standard protocol and McCoy's recommendations and paired the two together, hoping for the best.

What met both Jim and Bones' eyes when their boots hit the landing was both terrifying and exasperating at the same time. For once, Jim had to admit that maybe his mentor, Lieutenant Pike, was wrong to pair up to green cops together. Stevenson and Bradley were both standing at the threshold of apartment 2C, looking like lost sheep. McCoy stalked straight up to the pair and practically gaped. He gestured harshly toward the closed door. "Are you two deaf or stupid? What the fuck good reason do either of you have for standing here with your thumbs up your asses? Don't you hear that in there?"

At the same time, Jim's hand went for the collapsible baton situated on the left side of his duty rig. Screams and yells could be plainly heard from inside the room. An angry, slurred male voice shouted, "_Bitch! You'd better shut the fuck up before I beat you! I'll fucking kill you, I swear! I'll kill you!_" Kirk's head snapped to the left, an angry, challenging glare on his normally carefree face. Hotly, he asked the two rookies, "Well?"

Bradley, with her blonde hair and petite stature, looked like she belonged on the pages of Vogue rather than in a police uniform. She pointed meekly to the door. "They wouldn't let us in, sirs."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me. Move. _MOVE!_" McCoy growled, shoving both Bradley and her equally meek partner out of the way. The rookies' backs hit the wall hard, both stunned and silent.

Kirk took one step back and gripped the frame of the door with each hand. He pulled his right foot up, and leaned back on the heel of his left. McCoy understood what Jim was about to do, and in one fluid motion, unlocked active retention of the holster on his belt and unsheathed his trusty Sig Sauer. When Jim saw McCoy's gun at low ready, he completed the motion and stuck his booted foot hard into the door. It gave with a pathetic groan and landed with a crash onto the coffee table inside the apartment.

Jim and Bones charged into the room. Each man's eyes widened when the saw a very large, very intoxicated man beating the hell out of a terrified girl, no more than fourteen or fifteen. His back was toward the door, and he was peppering her with obscenities while he swung away. She was a tiny thing; all legs and elbows, cowering in the corner next to the kitchen sink. Big tears rolled down her cheeks as she begged for her father to stop. Kirk heard another child screaming from down the hall of the messy apartment, and he made a mental note to check on the kid as soon as he and McCoy had Captain Asshat under control.

Unhostering his Springfield XD, Kirk and McCoy both leveled their weapons at the man, making sure to avoid crossfire danger to each other or the young girl on the floor. McCoy called out, "POLICE! GET YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR! _NOW!_"

The big man turned and narrowed his eyes when he registered the presence of two uniformed officers. He snarled and turned right back around, intent on beating his daughter further. "Fuck you! This ain't your business! Get the fuck out of my house!"

McCoy sighed and holstered his gun, watching Kirk do the same. The two nodded to each other. The meaning was clear: it was time to go hands-on. The pair charged; McCoy, with his taller stature, went high, going for the suspect's hands. Kirk went low, like a linebacker pushing a tackling sled, and drove the man hard backwards and to the floor. The sudden change in momentum came much too quickly for the rum-soaked behemoth's brain to properly calculate. His legs worked with the coordination of a newborn deer on a patch of ice, taking a couple of short stutter steps in a futile effort to remain upright. Both cops knew that gravity was going to be the eventual winner, but now it was simply a matter of when he'd fall.

In a last ditch, desperate effort, their suspect spun and shook, trying to dislodge either Kirk or McCoy. The half pirouette unfortunately put McCoy at a serious disadvantage, with the floor looming from the bottom and a 250-pound man on the top. And since Jim got a nice running start, there was plenty of inertia to spare. Jim was stronger than he looked, especially in the lower body. McCoy blamed the tree trunks his partner had for legs on all the years of playing hockey. Len made the best of the situation as he felt himself falling, twisting his body so he could pull the suspect into a Full Nelson. Silently, he hoped he could hold it when hit the floor.

Fuck all, this was going to hurt.

Becoming the meat in a floor and man sandwich decidedly sucked. McCoy hit the hardwood floor of the kitchen hard. The back of their suspect's head made solid contact with his nose, and Len felt a pop and then tasted the coppery tang of blood in the back of his throat. All the air escaped from his body when the full weight of the drunkard landed on top of him. His head bounced hard off the floor and for a moment, he saw stars in his vision. He felt the man's sharp elbow dig into his ribs on the right side of his chest and couldn't hold back the tiny grunt of pain that slipped past his lips. McCoy's grip momentarily loosened, but he tightened it back up when he felt the man trying to wiggle out of the death grip on his biceps and neck. The radio dug uncomfortably into his back, but he steadfastly ignored the pain as he waited for his partner to regain his bearings. Hopefully, that happened sooner rather than later. Len wasn't sure how much longer he could hold the guy down.

Jim went tumbling over the pair when the trio crashed to the ground. He somersaulted over his left shoulder and then rolled gracefully to his feet in a squatted position. Kirk quickly recovered and ran over to help his partner. The big man managed to shimmy over to his side, which was actually advantageous to the pair of cops. Kirk grabbed the suspect's shoulder and forced him down onto his stomach. Jim added a knee into the back of the man's neck for good measure to keep him from going any farther. Screaming, cursing and still flailing, it took both Jim and Bones to restrain him by sitting on top of him long enough to get the man in cuffs.

Cuffed and about thirty seconds from stuffed, the large bundle of hate Jim and Bones worked so hard to subdue was still spitting and swearing. Jim grabbed the man by the arm and dragged him to toward the wall. He pushed him rudely out the ruined doorframe and deposited him in the back of the squad car. He ordered, "Sit. Don't move. Don't talk. You don't exist. Got it?" Kirk put one finger in the man's face and gripped his shoulder as hard as he dared. When his suspect nodded minutely, Kirk slammed the door shut and trotted back up the stairs to the apartment to check on his partner.

Bones was still down on one knee, right hand massaging the sore ribs where he'd been elbowed on the way to the ground. His radio was shattered, sitting in tiny pieces near his feet. Jim mentally groaned when he thought about the ass chewing the supply clerk was going to give them both when they returned to the house because somehow, it was always his fault. Even when it wasn't, he still was blamed. But when looked at condition of his partner's face, Kirk figured the radio was a small price to pay to be able to go home that night free of bruises and broken bones.

Face scrunched together in a tight wince, Kirk could see that McCoy was still trying to catch his breath. He knew Bones landed flat on his back with the weight of two men on top of him, so he was sure his partner had the wind knocked straight out of him. The tiny, inadequate tissue McCoy was holding to his still gushing nose was rapidly soaking through with blood, and Jim could see the beginnings of a nice shiner forming under the older man's right eye. Kirk walked over to the kitchen and grabbed a paper towel off the dispenser next to the dirty stove. Crinkling his nose, he tossed the first one he pulled off the roll and unwrapped a fresher one. He walked over to his partner and offered the man the scratchy paper towel.

With his eyes, McCoy looked up at Jim and grunted out a quick sound of thanks. He took the towel and quickly ripped it in half, tossing the old tissue on the floor at his feet. One half of the newly acquired towel he held up to his still bleeding nose. The other half he ripped into smaller pieces and began liberally jamming them up each nostril in a futile attempt to stem the bleeding.

Kirk looked down, patiently waiting for McCoy to finish packing his nose. He offered an elbow that his partner accepted with a tiny, exasperated sigh. Jim levered the taller man to his feet. He saw the way Bones blinked hard when he stood and the slightly dazed look in his eyes. Jim cocked his head to the side and said quietly, "We should get you checked out. You took a couple of hard hits there."

Shaking his head left and right, McCoy replied, "Nah. I'm good, Kid. Been banged up a lot worse than this. You should know that by now." He patted Jim on the arm in a small gesture of assurance.

After two years as partners, Kirk knew when McCoy was lying. Bones was the most stubborn son of a bitch on the planet when it came to his own health and wellbeing, something Jim found strange given the man's medical background. Kirk was also one of the few people who could read McCoy enough to know when was being truthful. Happily, he knew this was one time he wouldn't have to drag the man kicking and screaming to the hospital. Jim saw Bones' eyes clear and figured it might have just been the dregs of the adrenaline rush fading that caused the faraway look in his partner's eyes. Kirk's initial assumption was confirmed when McCoy pursed his lips and rolled his eyes.

Politely, McCoy picked up all the shredded paper and soiled tissues in one hand. He tossed them into the wastebasket under the sink and then gave his hands a quick rinse. "If you're done worrying about me, Mother, we should go check on the kids," McCoy said sarcastically. He took one step toward the hallway, Kirk falling in behind him. As soon as they had their suspect under control, both men noticed the young girl took off down the hallway to check on her sibling. As they made their way down to the back bedroom, McCoy let out a small sigh when he heard Stevenson and Bradley actually making themselves useful by comforting both children. Thank God for small favors, apparently.

Bones flipped his notepad open and was beginning to get the story from Nathalie Carson, the oldest daughter when the group heard a loud bang and another angry, drunk voice from the living room. Cowering, the two children slinked back against the wall. McCoy and Kirk instinctively put themselves between the kids and the new threat, forming a shield of sorts.

Bones looked over to Nathalie, a questioning expression on his face. "Who is that?"

"It's my uncle Jesse. He's just as bad as my dad, but bigger and meaner," she said, a tremor in her voice. Nathalie's tiny sister clung around her neck as if it were a lifeline. She buried her tiny face into her older sister's neck and cried silently. "Please, what do we do?"

Jim both cringed and seethed internally while he digested the new information. He quickly replayed the layout of the apartment in his head. The front door divided the small three-bedroom apartment in half, with the bedrooms on one side and the living room and kitchen on the other. He could hear Jesse moving around and yelling from the vicinity of the kitchen. With some luck, Bradley and Stevenson could get the kids out quickly and quietly. Kirk leaned down and gently picked Nathalie off the floor. "Honey, you're going to go with my friends here. They're going to take you outside, and we'll talk to your uncle, okay?"

The teen searched Jim's eyes for honesty and, apparently satisfied after a second, nodded her head. She grabbed a blanket for her sister on the way out the door and wrapped it around her. Kirk felt his anger ratchet up another notch when he saw how much of a mother the girl was, despite being nothing but a child herself. The quartet slipped quietly to the door, but Nathalie turned and said, "Be careful. He hates cops."

"Great," McCoy muttered. This was turning into a rather shit-tacular day in a damned hurry.

Moving silently down the hall, McCoy and Kirk watched the two rookies evacuate the kids. When they were sure all innocent parties were clear, McCoy stepped up and hollered, "Jesse Carson! Put your hands where we can see them and step out into the living room!"

One huge, burly foot landed with a thud on the floor. Jim and Bones followed the foot up to a leg, and then up a torso to one of the biggest, meanest looking conglomerations of a human being they'd ever seen. Nathalie wasn't kidding; her uncle was huge. Easily six foot six and nearly 300 pounds, he radiated anger and spewed filth from his mouth. Wearing dirty pair of cargo pants and wife beater, he looked like he last showered in a giant mud puddle and smelled like it to boot. He took one menacing step toward the pair, his fists flexing in and out in time with his footfalls.

Jim, in front of McCoy, braced himself. He knew he had no time to go for any of his available weapons. Kirk sent a quick mental thanks to Sulu for spending a few extra hours with him on advanced hand-to-hand combat techniques for use on combatants with the distinct size advantage. Make no mistake; Kirk was cocky, but he wasn't suicidal. He knew he could fight, but the laws of physics only extended a comforting hand so far. With a man that size, his only hope was control until more help arrived. He heard Bones bark a ten-thirteen into his mic, but he was too busy preparing to fight to hear anything else his partner said. Carson charged, and Kirk moved quickly out of the way. Jim had two distinct advantages: agility and sobriety. If he could simply play keep away long enough, maybe he'd survive. In the distance, he heard McCoy yelling and he hoped that meant backup had arrived.

Bones cursed. He didn't really have any options, and there was no way he was going to allow Stevenson and Bradley to help out, even if they were the closest form of back up. He'd forgotten that Carson's brother trashed his radio when the trio fell to the floor, so the ten-thirteen he'd just put out wasn't going to be heard by anyone that could render assistance. With a muted, "Fuck," McCoy dug the TASER from the holster strapped to his right thigh and flipped the device's safety off. "Sir, if you do not comply, I WILL deploy my TASER." He nearly rolled his eyes as the sentence exited his mouth. The rat squad recently put out a memo on proper procedure when using deadly force, and like hell would McCoy deal with them any more than absolutely necessary. If part of that procedure apparently involved sounding like a complete toolbox for the sake of avoiding litigation, he'd bite the bullet and do it just to keep his ass out of hot water. It was a wise choice not to tempt fate. With Kirk as his partner, McCoy found himself in the doghouse enough already.

Carson ignored McCoy's warning and kept after Kirk. Bones knew it was just a matter of time before he got lucky and snagged Jim. He regripped the handle of the yellow and black polymer compliance weapon and shouted one more time, "Carson, you need to stop unless you want 50,000 volts running through your sorry ass. Choice is yours. Stand down."

"Fuck you!"

McCoy shrugged. It was no skin off his ass. "Okay." Exhaling, he fell back on his training after hours upon hours and thousands of rounds he'd fired while on the range. As his breath left his body, McCoy's index finger gently pulled the TASER's trigger. The two shiny half arrowhead barbs launched from one of the three cartridges affixed to the end of the device. The little metal arrow from the right side of the TASER found its mark and hit Carson's ample stomach. But the moment McCoy pulled the trigger, Kirk shifted and Carson made his move. The big man got one meaty hand on Jim's arm, and Kirk, in a futile effort for safety, moved just enough to his left that the barb tore straight through his dark cargo pants and lodged itself in right cheek of his ass.

The moment the barbs made contact with human skin, both Kirk and Carson hit the floor, their legs no longer able to support their weight. The bigger man dropped like a rock and pulled Kirk down with him. The pair landed face first near the sad remains of the front door. But, all Carson's muscles tensed when the electricity started flowing through his body, and instead of releasing Jim's arm, he instead tightened his grip. The contact kept a closed connection and meant a nice jolt for both cop and criminal alike.

This, apparently, was the makings of an existential quandary. McCoy had his suspect's compliance. In fact, Carson was screaming like a little school girl as the high voltage from the TASER tore through his body. But, he also had his partner, his loveable but his pain in the ass man-child of a partner completely at his mercy. McCoy worked hard to keep the cranky face firmly in place. It was next to impossible not to show any of the inadvertent giddiness he felt at the irony of the situation. At least Jim was taking it like a man, avoiding the total spectacle that he often made of himself. Cocking his head to the left, McCoy released his hold on the TASER's trigger once he was sure Carson was done being a douche. He'd liked to have zapped Jim for an extra second or two, but he thought the brass might look down upon action such as that.

Or, they might give him a medal. Either one.

In his mind, Jim was screaming at Carson to let go, to stop trying to break his arm through sheer force. Kirk was lying on the ground, face red and clenched as he looked helplessly at the man next to him. McCoy was still on his feet above and behind the pair, and Jim could hear the sound of the rapid-fire clicks from the TASER over the roar in his ears of the blood rushing through his body. The world seemed to slow down to a crawl, everything happening in slow motion. Physically, every part of his anatomy felt like it was on fire, and he couldn't think about anything other than how much it sucked to be on the business end of his partner's high voltage weapon. He felt like a billion little knives were stabbing him, but they were doing it from the inside of his body. His heart raced, and he felt oddly detached.

Blessedly, the current stopped flowing after what felt like a damned eternity. Jim gasped and coughed, rolling over onto his stomach. He drew as much air into his lungs as he could with each breath to satisfy the screaming, oxygen deprived muscles in his body. He felt the floor tremble with each step McCoy took, his partner walking over him to cuff Jesse Carson. Jim heard the distinct sound of the handcuffs' ratchets over Carson's vehement protests as Bones tightened down the metal bracelets. A second later, the floor vibrated again and the yelling faded. Kirk smelled the clean scent of McCoy's cologne when his partner leaned down next to him. Bones patted him gently on the shoulder as he gave Kirk a cursory check for any gushing, gaping wounds. Finding none, he sat back on his haunches.

"Sorry about that, Kid. You got in my way," McCoy said loudly enough only Jim heard it. Len reached down and removed the radio mic from Jim's shoulder. "Six-two to dispatch. Send a bus and a supervisor to my location. We had a little compliance issue from the peanut gallery."

Slowly, the feeling was making its way back to his extremities. Jim was cognizant enough to haul himself to a kneeling position while he inspected the damage to his uniform and equipment. He did not remember the pain going on that long when he'd been TASERed as part of his academy training. "Fuck, Bones! What the hell was that?"

"What? I de-escalated the situation. Why, is there something wrong?" Bones asked in a tone so sickly sweet, even _he_ thought he might throw up. But, it was fun to "give back" as Jim often suggested. McCoy just thought the irony of the moment that Kirk would literally be eating his own words.

Growling, Jim used the wall to pull himself to his feet, not caring about the indignity of the TASER barb still hanging from the ass of his pants. His legs wobbled, but at least held him upright. Jim chanced a quick look at Bones, double taking when he saw the ghost of a smirk on his stony faced partner. Hobbling up to McCoy, Kirk glared. "You know what, Bones? I think maybe the rest of the squad is on to something: you _are_ a sadistic asshole." Jim limped his way past his partner and down the stairs to wait for the ambulance. Fuck it if Carson was getting the metal prongs pulled out of the ubiquitous layer of fat surrounding his stomach first. Kirk's muscles were way more important to him that Carson's at that moment.

McCoy laughed out loud. He called down the hallway to the landing, "Have I ever denied it?"

Kirk stopped dead in his tracks. He dropped his chin to his chest, posture sagging in defeat. Dammit, he hated it when McCoy was right.

Smug bastard.

* * *

**Next Up**: Use of deadly force normally requires a visit from the supervisor, and Lieutenant Pike will be damned if he lets this golden opportunity to subtly mock an in-pain Jim Kirk slip through his fingertips. Internally, of course, because he's a superior officer who would never, _ever_ conceive of such a notion. Yeah, right.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Notes**: So, this is it for Accidentally on Purpose, but there is a strong liklihood I'm not done playing in this newly created 'verse. The Star Trek characters as cops is something that's endlessly amusing to me, and has sprung a ton of tribbles to keep me entertained. So if you like it, I'm sure there will be more. As always, comments are loved but certainly not required. All I hope is that you all have enjoyed the story.

**Disclaimer**: Nothing recognizable is mine in this fic, Star Trek or otherwise.

**Chapter 3

* * *

**

As the old adage went, it really was wise to be careful what one wished for. Lieutenant Christopher Pike thought his day could not get any more boring. Scratch that. His _week_ couldn't get any more boring. It was only Tuesday, yet he was done with all his paperwork, he'd checked over every single report, and he was halfway through the duty roster for the next two weeks. In most normal circumstances, Pike was rushing at the very last minute to get everything done, because some other epic catastrophe had diverted his attention and shot to hell any subsequently budgeted time he thought he had to finish up the administrative tasks.

Pike propped his feet up on his desk, taking one quick peek through the half-closed blinds of his office to be sure no one could see him slacking off. He dug through the top drawer of his desk for the darts he kept stashed away for rainy days. Finding them, he opened the case and pulled them out. He chucked the old metal darts at the cork board he had stationed on the wall opposite his desk. Chris cursed quietly when his hand slipped, sending one dart astray into the wood paneling next to the board.

Sighing, Pike stood and retrieved the darts, tucking them safely back into the recesses of his desk. He was on his way to the kitchen to snag his third cup of coffee for the evening when a transmission caught his ears. It was McCoy's voice, but as he looked at the switchboard, he could see that it was Kirk's radio frequency.

'_Six-two to dispatch. Send a bus and a supervisor to my location. We had a little compliance issue from the peanut gallery_.'

Pike snorted. Only McCoy would call bystanders the 'peanut gallery.' But if he was asking for a supervisor, that usually meant the discharge of a weapon. And since he hadn't heard the frantic pops of gunshots being fired, he knew, by process of elimination, it was likely the TASER. Chris arched an eyebrow. Both Kirk and McCoy could fight, despite the latter's reluctance to actually do so. If they were resorting to the use of force, there was a damned good reason. Pike set his coffee cup down and leaned over the railing, eavesdropping on his loyal but very round desk sergeant.

Wiping the crumbs from his sandwich off his lap, Serdeski replied, "Six-two, this is dispatch. Say again, please?"

One day, he'd ask McCoy how he did it. Pike could hear the man's eyes rolling on the other end of the radio, and it was a mystery of science how Kirk's partner managed to convey a strictly visual gesture over an equally individual audio channel. '_So he does have manners. Serdeski, I didn't realize 'please' was part of your vocabulary. It's more than four letters_.'

"What do you need, McCoy?"

'_I just told you. We TASERed the brother of our primary suspect. Need a supervisor and a bus, my location._' Pike could hear the sigh of exasperation in McCoy's voice. Chris hoped Len never figured out that Greg played dumb simply as a form of free amusement. It would be a sad day at the house if he ever did, for Serdeski and Bones were nearly as entertaining as McCoy was with Kirk.

From the background, Pike heard Jim yell, '_**YOU**__ TASERed Carson! __**AND**__ me!_'

Serdeski blinked. And then blinked again, his round, red face doing a solid, near identical impression of an owl. He leaned back in his chair and placed his hands on his stomach. He peered up at Pike, the Lieutenant answering with a simple shrug of his shoulders. Greg clapped one hand over his face and bit down on his lip. The majority of the people near enough to hear the transmission mimicked the gesture. Serdeski, finally calm enough to speak, replied with a dramatic, "You-You did _WHAT?_"

'_Check the battery in your hearing aid and send a damned bus with a damned supervisor. I don't want to wait here all night for you to pull your thumb out of your ass long enough to do your job!_' McCoy growled into the mic. Incompetence really chapped his ass, and there wasn't anyone who could exponentially raise his blood pressure like Serdeski.

"Crabby much, McCoy?" A feral smile broke out across the face of the loyal desk sergeant when he saw Pike grab his coat off the hook and snag the keys to his unmarked from the bowl on his desk. One chubby finger smashed the transmission button. With an unholy amount of glee in his voice, Serdeski replied, "Dispatch to six-two. Lieutenant Pike will meet you at your present location."

In the background, Jim groaned and flopped down on his stomach. He was fairly certain that, as soon as Pike arrived, he'd die of embarrassment. Yes, it might have been a better idea to have stayed in bed.

* * *

McCoy swore up and down that the fire department assigned one specific ambulance to shadow them for the duration of their shift. That way, when Jim inevitably hurt himself, the accident prone little shit he was, there'd be a bus not far away to take care of the problem. Len wouldn't complain; paramedics meant less work for him to do when Kirk needed repairs. It's not that he wouldn't do it as he was still very, very qualified, but it was easier to let a slightly more objective party patch the kid up. Otherwise, McCoy might be tempted to "forget" to numb the area before he inserted the needle. It would truly be an accident if that unfortunate situation were to ever play out. He'd never, ever hurt his partner on purpose. He snorted. Well, that would be the line of total bullshit he'd tell Jim.

"Why can't you just pull it out?" Kirk was lying on the stretcher, face down with his chin pillowed on his forearms. The small silver arrow from the TASER was still sticking happily up in the air, half of it protruding from the new hole in the seat of Jim's pants. Kirk growled when he thought about having the pain of shopping, yet again, for new uniform pants and boxers to replace what McCoy's horseshit aim completely destroyed. At least the department allowed officers the freedom to wear cargo pants and boots instead of dress pants and shoes. McCoy took enough mercy on him to cut the wire attached to it, but the faster the thing came out of his skin, the happier he'd be.

To Jim's left, McCoy sat on the bench of the ambulance, legs crossed with a clipboard balanced on his right thigh. On it, he was dutifully getting a jump-start on his report to the supervisor that would outline the necessity for the use of a weapon. Peering over his clipboard, McCoy shifted in his seat. He set the paperwork down on the bench and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the tops of his knees. "I told you, Jim. I'm not a paramedic. Haven't been in almost ten years. Extracting things like that can be difficult, and I can hurt you if I don't do it right."

"Bullshit, Bones. You just don't want to."

"Well, there is that, too." Picking up his paperwork, McCoy clicked his pen and kept scribbling.

Tap, tap scrape. Loooong scrape. Tap, curse, and growl. Jim watched his partner closely. It was a known fact that Leonard McCoy and paperwork got on about as well as an igloo in the tropics, so it was eerily strange to see the man going at the clerical work with such gusto. The distinct look of concentration on McCoy's face would almost be funny if he wasn't feeling so weird. Everything was still tingly, and the waning adrenaline rush left him feeling strung out and anxious. Kirk lifted his chest up off the stretcher with his ab muscles and peered over the top of the clipboard. Snorting, Jim waved a hand at Bones' report. "You know, Lieu has to be able to read that. What language is it? Russian?"

McCoy fixed him with a long, hard stare. "No, it's English, but it's proper English with correctly punctuated sentences and spelling exactness. It's not the abhorrent amalgamation of random words and sometimes pictures that you try to pass off as English."

"What's wrong with my reports?" Jim asked.

"Your reports look like a four year old wrote them. Hell, I bet I could get a classroom full of kindergartners to write a more comprehensive police report than what you turn in. It's embarrassing that I have to sign my name to them as your partner," Bones answered.

"Oh, and this is coming from the man with perfect writing skills. Isn't 'illegible handwriting' a prerequisite to medical school? Because looking at that report you're writing in Swahili, I'm sure you passed with flying colors," Kirk sniped right back. Jim internally scowled. Maybe that TASER prong was making him crabby, but that was _definitely_ not one of his best comebacks. Normally, he was so much wittier. But that? That was just sad.

McCoy could see Kirk was having an off day, none of which was any kind of his fault. Nope. Not at all. He grabbed the report and dangled it in front of Jim's face. "Maybe you should try reading it. You might learn something."

Staring at the offered sheet of paper, Jim shook his head. Seriousness was never his forte, so it was no surprise that even a chunk of pointy metal sticking out of his ass couldn't temper his sense of humor. With a completely straight face he asked, "Lemme guess: 'Top to bottom, left to right? Take Tylenol for any headaches? Midol for any cramps'?"

McCoy's chin fought the urge to shake. It was a losing battle, and a tiny wibble of amusement bubbled to the surface. He conceded defeat with an airy, "That was the stupidest movie in the history of mankind. I cannot believe you made me watch it." He stared off into space, eyebrows furrowing at the middle as if the proverbial light bulb just flashed on somewhere in the space above his head. "I can't believe I sat through the whole thing."

"Aww, my partner is developing a sense of humor! You remember it, Bones! That's awesome!" Jim was ecstatic, face bright and animated but his expression also had a hint of sarcasm to it. Temporarily forgetting that he was supposed to be upset with his partner for shocking him thoroughly, Jim was nearly bouncing. It was a glorious day that McCoy actually connected a pop culture reference. "Tommy Boy is one of the all-time classic movies!"

"All time classically idiotic is more like it." McCoy motioned over to the area of Jim's ass and TASER barb. Cheekily, he added, "And if you keep fidgeting around, that's gonna leave a mark."

The sudden slap of pain to his lower extremities reminded him in a hurry what had just happened a few moments earlier. Jim didn't know whether the proper reaction was to be impressed or to want to slug his partner for being such a pain in that ass. But before he could contemplate the merits of either, Kirk felt the ambulance shift as someone stepped on to the chrome running boards attached to the side of the bus. The door opened and Chris Pike's head popped into the small, darkened space.

"Room for one more in here?"

McCoy looked up from his paperwork and let out a small, grateful sigh. "Thank God," he muttered. Leonard beckoned with his right hand. "Sure. Come on in, Lieu. Be nice to have a sane person in here with me."

"Heard that." Pike's eyes swept over the visual scene that was laid out before him. The first thing his brain registered was Jim, the kid lying on the stretcher directly in front of his position by the side door. But as Chris' gaze moved over to McCoy, he stopped short. The shiner Jim saw forming earlier when they were still in the apartment was now fully realized into a giant knot at the top of McCoy's right cheekbone. It was already starting to bruise over, and Chris could also see the spider web of purple splotching forming at the inside corner of that same eye. Given a few hours to marinate, the end results were likely to be spectacular. "Jesus Christ, Len. What the hell happened to your face?"

Kirk laughed and slapped the top the gurney with his right hand. "Ha! I knew it! I knew it, Bones!"

"You had to say something, didn't you? Dammit!" McCoy groaned, but the sound that came from him had nothing to do with his injuries. He winced when he shifted, digging in the back pocket of his pants for his wallet. He pulled a twenty out of the bi-fold section and slapped into Jim's hand. Frowning, he turned back toward Pike. "I think the correct response was, 'I walked into the door,' Sir." It wasn't total bullshit. Len _did_ hit some door. Well, more like door frame and splinters of the door proper, but it was still a door. Sort of.

From his position between the two men, Kirk scoffed, turning a bit more serious for a brief moment. "Hell no, Chris. Don't believe him. That," Jim said, motioning with one hand toward McCoy's battered face, "Is what happens when a huge dude's cranium makes acquaintance with my partner's face."

Chris stepped into the ambulance and crossed his arms over his chest. McCoy might not be his partner any more, but Pike still felt a sense of responsibility toward him. And though he hadn't been a rookie for years, he'd always be the probie in Chris' mind. If anything happened to Len, Pike knew his wife would have his balls on a plate. By questioning Kirk and McCoy, he really was killing two birds with one stone: he was doing his job as the squad's supervisor, and more importantly, he was keeping his ass out of his wife's crosshairs. With his left arm still folded over his chest, Chris pointed with the index finger of his right hand, "Did you get that checked out?"

"Of course I did. And if I didn't, I'd have you here to remind me." McCoy glanced down at Jim. "Both of you."

"You know I have to ask."

Sighing, Len replied, "Yeah, I know. Doesn't mean I have to like it, though. I've got a mother, and she's damned prettier than you."

"I would certainly hope so. That might be a little scary." With a little levity in the air, Pike's gaze finally settled on McCoy's poorly disguised smug but relieved expression. Time to get down to the real reason he was out in the first place. If he thought it was weird to hear over the air that he'd TASERed his partner, it was even more of a head trip actually seeing it. Chris ducked his head, bracing one hand on the roll bar above the door. He stopped and then stepped further into the bus, straightening as much as the low ceiling would allow once fully inside. "Do I dare ask what the happened?"

"I would think that it'd be fairly obvious," McCoy said, matter-of-factly. He peered over the giant clip of the clear plastic clipboard and gave Pike his best 'well, duh!' expression he could muster on five cups of coffee and three hours' sleep.

Pike dragged his eyes back to Kirk's prone form. Face red and lip curling, Jim was growling spectacularly. The kid was cursing and half-yelling at his partner with such gusto that Chris momentarily forgot it wasn't Leonard lying on the stretcher in the ambulance. The only thing Jim apparently hadn't learned from his partner in that respect was how to do it quietly. Chris rubbed one hand over his right eyebrow. Just when he thought he'd seen it all, Jim and Bones did something else to prove him wrong. "On my way over here, I was thinking that I had to be dreaming for this call to be true. You really did it?"

"That's what my report is going to say, Lieu," McCoy answered without looking up. He finished writing and signed his name on the bottom with a dramatic flourish.

"Your report? _Now_ you're worried about a report? Dude, my ass! You TASERed me in the ass, Bones!" Kirk hollered, twisting as much as he dared on the gurney.

Chris and McCoy exchanged amused glances. McCoy snorted loudly. Resting the palm of his hand near the bottom of the magazine of his gun, he tapped the rosewood grip of the shiny, silver P226 handgun nestled safely in his holster. "Would you have preferred I used my Sig and shot you with a real bullet instead? Kid, there have been plenty of times I've been sorely tempted." Shrugging, he added more to himself than to Jim or Pike, "Might have been a nice treat to ride alone for a while. It would have been quiet. I could hear myself think, and I wouldn't have to listen to that shit you purport to be music."

Pike held up a hand, presumably to stop the argument before it could truly get going. There was not enough space in the back of an ambulance for Kirk and McCoy to have it out. For that, they needed to find a big, wide open chunk of land that could accommodate automatic weapons fire and rocket propelled grenades, with no way any innocent bystanders could wander in on World War III. Shaking his head, Chris surprised both younger men with the words that exited his mouth. "No, no. If anyone's going to shoot him, it'll be me. I'm pulling rank. Get in line, McCoy."

Kirk's jaw dropped. What the good fuck was this about? Pike was the one that usually had his back, since he and Jim damn near shared a communal personality. McCoy often remarked how uncanny the similarities were between the two men, given they shared zero biological relation. Jim's brain began the download sequence to process the beginnings of a good, rip-roaring, profane and inflammatory rant. It was ultimately step one for his newest verbal assault on his partner. But before he could actually engage his mouth, Kirk was rudely stopped dead in his tracks. Any witty retort died on his lips when the back doors opened the door and one of the paramedics hopped back into the rig. Jim snapped his mouth closed, still steaming with righteous indignation at his two mentors and friends gleefully ganging up on him.

"Gentleman," Iowa City's newest paramedic, Sarah Parker acknowledged to the trio. She gave Pike a pass, but eyed McCoy and Kirk up and down. "Though I use that term loosely." Flipping her dirty blonde ponytail over his shoulder, she sat down in the chair situated toward the cab of the ambulance and picked up Kirk's chart.

"Hey! I'll have you know we are nothing but fine, upstanding officers," Jim corrected, dripping sweetness from his voice.

Parker rolled her eyes and pushed past McCoy. She donned a pair of blue sterile gloves and pulled a couple of squares of gauze from the corner of the cabinet. Over her shoulder she said, "Yeah, I've heard all about you two. I know your types, and I'm not impressed by either of you. I might be new to Iowa City, but not to this game," she said, a distinct inflection of New York City in her accent. "Let me tell you: the bullshit isn't going to work with me, so you can forget it right now. Now, Officer Kirk, hold still while I take this thing out of you, unless you'd prefer I walk away and let your partner to deal with it."

Pike bit down a chuckle when Jim's eyes widened. The kid settled in onto his forearms without another word. Chris had to hand it to her; silencing Jim Kirk was no easy task, and Parker managed to do it a quick three sentences. That might be some kind of a record. Idly, Chris wondered if he should write it down for future reference.

To Parker's left, Bones muttered something unintelligible under his breath. He yanked the sheet of paper from the clip holder, tossed the clipboard down on the bench of the ambulance and made his way toward the back doors. McCoy felt the sudden rush of arctic air when he pulled opened the door. He suppressed a shudder at the sudden sting of the cold. His boots hit the ground outside the ambulance with a thud, and he cursed when his foot caught a patch of ice. Slipping, he managed to right himself before he faceplanted into the pavement. Even after ten years in the Midwest, McCoy had still yet to master the whole concept of walking on ice. Straightening, he adjusted his duty rig and glanced back over his shoulder at Pike. "I've got work to do, and now that someone else is paying attention to Jim."

Pike shrugged and hopped down from the step of the ambulance. He landed gracefully on the opposite side of the ice that nearly brought McCoy down and started making his way back toward the general vicinity of the apartment. He pushed past the crowd of onlookers and walked through the parking lot. Passing Stevenson and Bradley, Chris shot both rookies a deadly look. "We'll have words later, you two. Count on it."

Stevenson gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "Yes, sir."

In a quiet voice, Len added, "Those two are going to get killed, or they're going to get someone else killed."

Pike sighed, the deep breath he drew exiting his lungs in a wide, heavy white puff of cold induced white smoke. "I know. I'll be splitting them up tomorrow, as soon as I can figure out who can take them on."

Len nodded, satisfied. "They're going to be good cops, Chris. They're just green."

Pike popped the latch on the door to the driver's seat, leaning on the top of the frame. Cheekily, he peered over the roof of the car towards McCoy. "I know that, too. Sounds like someone else I knew."

Chris laughed when McCoy's smooth gait hitched as soon as the sentence was clear of the Lieutenant's mouth. The two men settled inside the relative warmth of the car. Pike turned the engine over and cranked the heat up to high. He knew McCoy hated Iowa winter with a searing passion, but also that he was too stubborn and proud to admit he was freezing his ass off standing outside. Chris' face morphed into one of concern when he saw Len wince and pinch the bridge of his nose. Pike turned in his seat, tilted his head to the left and asked again, "Are you absolutely sure you don't need to head over to the hospital? You look a little pale yet. There's no harm in getting another look."

McCoy exhaled slowly when his ribs gave a rather painful throb. "No, I'm okay. The medics checked me out, and there's nothing the hospital could do for me short of telling me to get some rest, and ice my face and my ribs," he answered. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the worried expression on Pike's face. With a dramatic roll of his eyes, he added, "Which I plan on doing as soon as I get off shift. Jesus, you are worse than my own damned parents."

"Let me remind you, son, that your own parents didn't roll up on you while you were wrestling with a couple of drug dealers in time to see you get shot three times at point blank range," Chris countered forcefully, turning serious and shuddering unintentionally at the unpleasant memory. Even five years was not enough separation to erase from his mind the sound of the rapid pop-pop-pop from the gun pointed at his downed partner, or the smell of sulfur from the recently expended rounds from his own gun. Chris knew he'd never forget that day, and though sometimes he wished he could, he knew he needed to remember. It put his own life and his job back in stark, blunt perspective.

For once without a snide remark or snarky comment, Len sat silently. In his own rational mind, he knew Pike was right. But, he was never very good at facing his own mortality, and even his closest brush with death did little to turn him over a new leaf. He exhaled a shaky breath and cracked his neck. Softly, McCoy said, "He hit my vest, Chris."

"That time." Pike pointed one finger at his protégé and continued. "But that's not the point and you know it. As much as you don't like to admit it, you need the mothering, Len. You wouldn't take care of yourself otherwise, and I'm not about to let you get yourself hurt again."

"I'm not careless, if that's what you're getting at," Len replied defensively.

"I know you're careful. You always have been. That's not what I meant. What I _am_ saying is that you look out for other people far more than you look out for yourself," Pike corrected. He scrubbed one calloused palm over his face and added, "Jesus, what makes you such a good training officer gives me grey hair."

The muscle in McCoy's jaw clenched and unclenched as he digested Pike's words. Len turned his head to stare straight out the window, allowing a terse silence to engulf the interior of the vehicle. He knew Pike was right, that he would do something borderline dangerous before he allowed anyone else to attempt the same. Begrudgingly, he admitted to himself that if Kirk pulled some of the shit he did as a young officer, Len would string the kid up by his belt and leave him hanging on the wall to prove his point.

The Lieutenant knew no more words were necessary, that McCoy understood the point he was trying to make. Pike let Len calm down and get comfortable before turned to the more professional matters at hand. "Now, on to this whole TASERing-your-partner business. I am not amused, McCoy. It's one thing to deploy it to gain compliance, but it's completely another to hit a member of law enforcement in the process. You're making more paperwork for me, and that is annoying."

Smirking, Leonard raised his eyebrow and blew on his frozen hands. "Yeah, whatever. But I also know you well enough to see that you're just here for the entertainment. Don't lie to me, Chris. After seven years as your partner, it doesn't work. I know the face you make when you're trying to fart silently, so don't think you can slip this one past me. I can see it."

"Yeah, okay. You got me there," Chris laughed, easily conceding defeat. "Why don't you just give me the abridged version and I'll be on my merry way, back to drown in my paperwork." He reached into the back seat of the car and pulled out a leather laptop bag. Fishing around, he found the computer and powered it up. Chris listened patiently while McCoy recounted the evening, from dispatch's first call to the moment before Pike arrived. To the Lieutenant, it seemed justifiable, if not highly amusing. He was sure when he took statements from Stevenson, Bradley and Kirk, the evidence would concur that Leonard acted rationally. Satisfied, Pike snapped the laptop shut.

"So, am I back in your doghouse?" McCoy asked, feeing the end of the interview.

"No. I think you're good on this one, but you're not my problem child. I'm going to clear you two as soon as Jim gets his dignity ripped apart by that new, tough looking paramedic. I'm going to clear you right now so you'll be back on duty tonight," Chris answered.

Sighing in relief, McCoy visibly sagged in the passenger's seat. "Thanks, Lieu. Glad to hear it." It wasn't really the prospect of being in trouble that irritated McCoy, but rather the inevitable desk duty that came from being pulled off patrol. More specifically, desk duty with Jim Kirk might as well have been a one-way ticket to the nuthouse. Any day where he was allowed on the street was a good one. Jim's constant energy needed an outlet, and that outlet was not well served in a small room with really bad coffee.

So relieved, McCoy nearly missed Kirk's exit from what was probably Parker's Lair of Doom. Len's eyes flicked over when he saw movement at the ambulance. The doors popped open and Jim hopped out. Both men expected Kirk to be running as fast as he could to escape Parker's sharpened talons. But instead of a race back to the squad, Jim was walking casually though the lot, his trademark cocky smile on his face. McCoy's eyes followed the path back to the rig to see the newest Iowa City paramedic not far behind. The pair watched Jim and Sarah flirted shamelessly. Kirk turned up the charm and flashed what Len termed the 'pretty boy smile' at the young lady. She reacted predictably, blushing and ducking her chin to her shoulder. A second later, she extended her hand with a business card, and both men in the car could clearly see a handwritten phone number scribbled on the back.

Simultaneous groans escaped both Pike and McCoy. Each man tipped his head back to come to rest against the headrest. Pike tilted his eyes to the right and grimaced when Kirk grabbed Parker's hands in a gesture of goodbye. "Tell me I didn't just see that."

"Do you still roll around with the brain bleach in your car, Chris?" McCoy threw his arm up over his face. As much as he loved his partner, sometimes the shameless flirtation got really old. He knew it got on Pike's nerves from time to time again, and as a joke one year, Len had a label made that he affixed over a true bottle of bleach. When Pike walked back into the precinct after a long day dealing with the stupidity of the general public, he'd laughed for five straight minutes when he saw McCoy's gift sitting on his desk. From that moment on, it was rumored that the bottle rode in the trunk of Chris' car as a silent salute to Len's witty sense of humor.

Truth be told, Pike really wished he hadn't actually used the bottle at a crime scene. Chris opened his eyes and glared out the window. "No, it's _definitely_ time to reorder."

Leonard inwardly seethed. Damn Jim Kirk and his ever-present charm to hell. But the capricious nature of the situation literally dropped into his lap up in Carson's apartment was too good to ignore, and for once, McCoy thought he'd managed to get the upper hand on Jim without having to resort to using rank. Any feelings of glee or sadistic satisfaction were wiped away as soon as he saw the rather frosty Parker melt when Kirk cranked up the charm. It was maddening, frustrating, and entertaining all at the same time, because McCoy knew how it would invariably end. It would be spectacular, it would loud, and it would end _badly_. As his partner, Len was glad he would be there to see it all go down.

Chris snorted. "This ought to be good. That woman is going to eat him for lunch."

He was most definitely inclined to agree. But, if every member of the department had to suffer because of Jim Kirk's woman woes, Len figured it was his civic duty to at least make it interesting. Turning to Pike, McCoy asked, "Do you want in on an over-under of how long it takes her to forcefully sedate him?"

"I'll get in on that." Pike pursed his lips, deep in thought. He mentally ran the chances in his head, though history, experience and common sense all dictated that it wouldn't take long for Jim to royally piss of the spunky paramedic. Chris prayed it didn't end with some type of catastrophic level explosion only the fire department would be able to extinguish. With a shrug, Pike placed his wager. "I give it one date."

"That's a losing bet for sure, man. I don't give it any dates at all," McCoy replied. He pulled out his notepad and scribbled down the date and Pike's rather optimistic forecast. By the end of the shift, he knew his entire sheet would be full of predictions from other members of the department, none of which would be terribly sanguine.

Reaching over to shake the younger man's hand, Pike said slyly, "Leonard, you have yourself a bet."

Len flipped the door handle, extracting himself from the vehicle. He waved a quick goodbye to Pike as the lieutenant drove off the lot, fishing in his right pocket for the keys to his car at the same time. McCoy walked calmly over to where Jim was waiting, all the while twirling the key for the pair's car around his index finger.

"Are we golden?" Kirk asked, leaning casually against the hood of the cruiser.

"We're golden." He unlocked the car, slid in and started the engine. McCoy turned to Kirk and asked as innocently as he could, "Want to get something to eat? Your choice. I want to hear all about this new date of yours."

Kirk shifted in his seat and adjusted the seat belt so it stopped rubbing his neck. Something wasn't sitting right with him, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was exactly. Jim narrowed his eyes. "Did Carson's giant cranium knock something loose in your own head? Did you lose some brain cells I should be worried about? You _never_ let me pick dinner and you hate hearing about my sex life, but now you're willing to do and hear both?"

Bobbing his head up and down, McCoy plastered a tiny smile on his face and hoped Jim would buy the act. "Once can't hurt. I thought I'd try it to see what infantile place you'd choose, and what you kids think of as 'dates' these days."

"Famous last words." Jim chuckled. He was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and figured that maybe this new development in their partnership was one right step in the equality direction. But he was still wary; experience taught him that full trust in Leonard McCoy on matters away from the job was unwise and detrimental to his health. With a sideways glance, Jim replied with a skeptical, "All right. If you're okay with it."

"I'm fine with it," he replied solidly. Internally, McCoy cringed. It painful even thinking about what Jim might do or say about his new lust interest, and what kind of gut busting food the kid would choose. But if he had to relinquish some control in order to figure out a way to tip the scales in his favor, then so be it. It was a small price to pay with such huge stakes riding on his bet with Chris.

There was no way he was going to wash every single squad car on his next day off if he lost to Pike.

No. Fucking. Way.

**-FIN-**


End file.
